Postcards From Last Summer (40 page)

A
s the band played the final song of the evening and Tara and Steve took their last turn on the dance floor, I felt the weight of disappointment pull me down onto a low retaining wall bordering the garden. I sat behind a potted palm wanting to cry for no reason in particular, just the vague letdown of having all the positive things in my life culminate in this evening. The wedding had provided so many juicy distractions. Deciding between roses and gardenias in Tara's headpiece had been a joyous task, though it had ended way too quickly, leaving me to face the train wreck that was my life.

Dealing with Noah and our lackluster relationship. Saying good-bye to Tara and Steve, who'd be too far for even a phone call at a reasonable time of day. And being there for Ma . . . I bit my lip to hold back the tears, not wanting to think about it.

Focus on Noah, and how to fix things with him.
Hard to believe we'd been seeing each other for almost two years now and he still seemed to be a stranger at times, aloof and distracted and far more interested in scripts and films and rehearsals than he would ever be in me. It seemed that I'd suffered a thousand little heartbreaks, every time he missed a dinner date or cancelled plans because of work commitments—a last-minute rehearsal, a glitch in editing, a premiere he'd forgotten about. He'd missed my birthday gathering at Tavern on the Green and sent me off to the Island Books Christmas party without an escort. Mortifying. Upsetting.

But every time I planned my breakup speech, he'd boomerang back, taking me for a latte in a quiet café to discuss story problems in a script or stopping by my apartment with a bottle of wine and gourmet takeout from Dean and DeLuca. In those moments, when he actually looked across the table and seemed to see me, I felt short bursts of hope that it might all work out, that I might weave a relationship, albeit unconventional, with this man. Like brief epiphanies, those moments seemed to light the way to our future together . . . only to dim when Noah inevitably pulled away and left me stranded once again.

What to do?

Ending the relationship was an obvious choice. But I did care for him, very much, and I had to admit, the status of being Noah Storm's girlfriend gave me a lift. It would be hard to let go. I was rolling the Noah dilemma around in my mind for the thousandth time when my brother shouted for me.

“Okay, Linds, this is it.” Steve bounded over, the stiff collar of his tux popped open, his black tie dangling. “Tara and I head back to the city tomorrow, then the flight to Tokyo, so we figured we'd better say good-bye now.”

I glanced up at him, my lips pressed together to keep from crying. “Good-bye?”

His eyes narrowed as he took in my mood. “Hey, don't cry.”

Which brought on the tears, stinging my eyes. I swiped them away as he sat beside me, slinging an arm around my shoulders.

“We'll be back for Christmas. This is going to be a great adventure for us.” He patted my back. “I gotta thank you for all the wedding stuff you did. Tara is, like, head in the clouds, and it's really because of you.”

“No problem,” I said, my voice sounding as if I were swallowing gravel. “It was fun.”

“And I want you to know what a big relief it is to know you'll be staying with Ma now. I can't tell you how much that eases my mind.”

I nodded. As the only single McCorkle child, it had fallen on me to be our mother's caretaker. A labor of love, despite the bleak outlook.

“I think it's going to help Ma, just having you around. She's going to beat this thing.” Steve made a fist. “I have a good feeling about it.”

“Steve, it's stage four pancreatic cancer,” I said. What did he not get about the prognosis, which the family had discussed at length? It was the reason I was taking a leave of absence from Island Books. Ma wasn't even receiving treatment anymore, beyond pain meds and the drugs she'd agreed to take for a clinical trial. Hiding under a palm frond, I thought of the many walks I'd taken on the beach in the past few weeks, arm in arm with Ma, talking about all those end-of-life things that were important to our mother—her children, her extended family, her home. Knowing that her time on the planet was ending, Ma was working hard to sort through some things for herself.

Ma had even put a clause in her will about not selling the house on Rose Lane until at least a year after her death. “I'd like to keep the Hamptons house in the family,” Ma had told me. “I know it's just a house, but so many wonderful things have happened there, and it's such a perfect place for the grandchildren.”

“Let's not talk about the will, Ma,” I said.

“But I want to get things in order.” My mother paused near the foaming surf and shook my arm gently, her dark eyes all business. “It's my death, and I want to have a good one. Don't deny me that, lovey.”

“I don't want to talk about it, okay?” I said. “It hurts too much.”

“Then just listen,” Ma told me. “Give an old lady her dying wish, and let me ramble on a bit.”

So I understood Steve's need for denial; I just didn't have the luxury of hiding behind it anymore.

“I know what the doctors say,” said Steve, “but I also know they're not always right. And Ma has an iron will; when she sets her mind on something, there's no stopping her.”

Death and taxes. The old joke popped into my mind unbidden: What are the two things no human can escape?

I glanced at my brother, wondering if I should bring him back to earth with real information about Ma's condition. But he was staring off across the lanai, color high on his cheeks and a glimmer in his eyes as he watched his bride talk with some of the departing guests. Steve didn't want to hear the truth; he was in major denial. Right now, he viewed the world through the rosy tint of newlywed optimism.

“And Ma's taking that trial drug, right?” Steve reminded me, proving that he had been paying attention to some of the facts. “The derivative of the Asian shrub? What if that's the miracle cure? Anything is possible, Linds.”

“That's true,” I said, leaving his hope intact.

We stood up and I grabbed him tight in a killer hug. “I'm going to miss you guys,” I whispered, “but I'm so glad you found each other.” Maybe he was right to stay positive and expect miracles. Hope springs eternal.

“S
ounds like someone woke up on the wrong side of the broomstick,” Steve said the morning after the wedding as Tara tossed small bottles of lotion and shampoo into her travel kit.

“Yeah, I'm cranky.” She let out a small, strained laugh. “Not that it's your fault, but why did you agree to brunch at my parents' house the day after our wedding?”

“They offered to drive us to the airport, and your father said he wanted a proper good-bye.” He balled up boxers and a T-shirt and tucked them into the corner of his duffel bag.

“Ugh.” She zipped up her navy Louis Vuitton luggage and dropped it down from the bed with a thud. “I was hoping to get out of town without another confrontation.”

“Out of town to Tokyo? Tara, we're flying halfway around the world. It's not like we can stop in next week for coffee. I think we can spare the 'rents a few minutes before we hightail it outta here.”

Tara turned to glare at him, but the sight of her husband dressed in only faded jeans softened her anger. Not an inch of flab over his waistband, his tight, flat waist led up to rippled muscles and a light patch of hair.

“What are you staring at?” he asked.

“Thirty-three years old and you still got it.”

Steve covered his nipples demurely. “I'm so embarrassed,” he teased. “Did you marry me for my body?”

“No . . .” She stepped up to him and pressed her palms to his flat chest. “But it sure didn't hurt.”

 

Thank the Lord for Steve; he made the meal with her parents tolerable, almost pleasant as he discussed sports with her father and ate enough of her mother's homemade biscuits to make Serena Washington's cheeks glow with pride. When everyone was finished eating, Tara's father arose from the table and beckoned his daughter.

“Come with me, sweetheart.”

Shooting a look of regret to Steve, Tara found herself following her father up the back stairs to the small room lined with books. Her father's old maple desk sat at the center of the room, his “secret” stash of cigars in the top drawer, though these days he only nibbled on the ends and occasionally lit them in the garden for a few short puffs.

Laurence Washington went straight to the cigar drawer. “Sweetheart, I hate to see you leave this way, with you and your mother so at odds.”

“I'm not thrilled either, Daddy.” She lingered in the doorway, not wanting to enter the room and immerse herself in a conflict. “I'm struggling with it. She lied to me.”

He held the cigar under his nose and sniffed. “And you can't forgive her for that?”

“As I said, I'm struggling with it.”

“And you blame your mother.” He turned away, a courtroom gesture that attracted attention to his next question. “Funny,” he said, turning back to her. “I was in on it, too. I participated in the lie, and yet you don't blame me.”

“Maybe I should.” She stepped into the room, veering left toward a bookcase and running her fingers over the titles inscribed on the bindings. “But I don't feel that way. Look, Daddy, I don't want to argue the fine legalities. The secret was Mom's to create, and it hurt me, all the time I was growing up. I felt like a freak, and she tried to make me act like someone I'm not.”

“We wanted you to have a cultural context, to feel like you belonged.”

“Well, I didn't, okay?”

“Point taken,” he said. “But may I point out, Tara, that we tried to do what was best for you and your brother and sister. We tried, honey, and maybe we took the wrong approach. It's something you'll want to think about for when you have children.”

“I won't lie to them,” Tara said slowly, not wanting to shut her father down. She didn't remember him ever opening up this much before.

“But when will you tell them that you're of mixed race? How old should they be? Of course, it will be more obvious with you and Steve as parents. Maybe you won't have the same problem.”

“Steve and I haven't decided whether we're having kids yet,” she said. “But if we do, we'll be honest with them. They'll know they're of mixed race. And we would probably get involved with some kind of support group, so that our children could spend time with other children of mixed race and know they're not alone in the world.”

“You're smarter than we were,” he said, leaning back onto the edge of his desk. “More socially aware. I shouldn't be surprised by that. You were always a headstrong, stubborn little girl. You know—” His voice cracked, his eyes shiny with tears. “I'm proud of you, honey. You're finding your way . . . your own way. I'm so proud.”

He reached for her, and Tara hugged him tight. “We're going to miss you, honey,” he said.

“We'll be back,” she reminded him, feeling her throat thicken with emotion. This was the most affection she'd ever received from her father, aside from yesterday when he'd walked her down the aisle and kissed her under her tulle veil. “It's only for a year.”

“God bless you, child,” he whispered. “God bless.”

There was the creak of footsteps in the hall, and then Serena Washington's voice. “Are we interrupting?” Mama's fake tone indicated she knew they were, but Tara just drew in a breath and turned to face her mother and husband, who smiled casually, fingertips tucked in his jeans pockets.

“I just realized we'll have to get going right after dessert,” Mama said. “They still want you to check in two hours before an international flight.”

Typical Mama, always on top of the rules. Studying her now, Tara noticed that the lines at the corners of her mouth had become permanent creases and the curve of her waist had disappeared, now well disguised by her double-breasted linen suit. She also noticed that her mother held a small velvet box in her slender fingers.

“We'd better stay on schedule,” Tara said, casually, finding it hard to avert her gaze from the box, a rich royal velvet.

“Oh, and this.” Her mother stepped forward and handed the velvet box to Tara. “I thought you might want it.”

The blue velvet felt soft in her fingers. Inside was a heart-shaped locket, a beautiful silver sliver etched with old-fashioned flowers. “How pretty.”

“I know it's not in style,” Serena explained quickly, “and don't think you have to wear it, but it was your grandmother's. Grandma Mitzy. There are tiny pictures of her and Willy inside.”

Pressing the tiny clasp, Tara popped the locket open to see the photos, old black and whites, with Willy in his soldier's cap. An old-fashioned locket.
When you close it, the people inside kiss,
Tara thought, remembering someone saying that when she was a kid. “This is wonderful.” Tara put the velvet box on her father's desk so that she could put the necklace around her neck. Her mother helped her with the clasp.

“I love it,” Tara said, reaching down to touch the heart nestled just above the cleavage revealed by her camisole top. “Thank you, Mama.”

Serena waved her off. “It's nothing.”

Tara caught her mother's eye, knowing this was as close as they'd probably come to a reconciliation. “No, Mama, it's very special.” She reached for Mama's hand and gave it a squeeze. “It means a lot to me. It always will.”

Mama drew in a deep breath, nodding. She knew. At last, she got it.

“Now,” Tara said, gently checking the locket at her breast, “how about that dessert?”